


you'll know

by sakon



Category: Ayatsuri Sakon | Puppet Master Sakon
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:13:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakon/pseuds/sakon
Summary: Kissing him feels comfortable, and when his slender fingers come to pull your hair back, staring into your eyes, grazing your knuckles and tangling your fingers together, sticky with the film of ice cream and uncaring, you know that it’s different from the past girlfriends. Not that there were many to begin with.He believes when he'll get there, he won't understand.
Relationships: Tachibana Sakon/Fujita Zenkichi
Kudos: 1





	you'll know

You think you understand; you’re driving to miles and miles away. You don’t know where you’re going, but you’re going regardless. Sakon says the destination, and you drive. The wheels on your car are rusted ancient, torn and dented by gravel roads, just as the car itself — it’s half your age, maybe more. All you know is that you kissed your first girlfriend in the backseat, plagued by the stank of beer and alcohol and everything you were too young to be doing but did anyway.

You kiss him too. His tongue slips differently, your teeth knock clumsy, and everything about it feels so juvenile – a little strange, but you don’t mind it; he’s new to it, and you can’t blame him. Kissing him feels comfortable, and when his slender fingers come to pull your hair back, staring into your eyes, grazing your knuckles and tangling your fingers together, sticky with the film of ice cream and uncaring, you know that it’s different from the past girlfriends. Not that there were many to begin with.

He likes your lip balm. Sakon ends up stealing your jacket — it smells like you, kisses, ink, and somehow honey. He throws it on as you drive down a winding road, catching distant mountains beside him. You watch him become a child all over again. Flustered, your hands grip around the wheel and you shove it all down — Ukon will tease relentlessly if he ever sees it, and you wanna try at keeping back your frustration, even if temporary. Sakon becomes as red as you and the roses you gave him — cliche but you dig it — when you asked him out. 

When you’re driving, you brush a kiss across his lips. Traffic there is good, but he tells you to pay attention — at least his puppet does. The black shadows under your eyes weigh, your eyes burn; you are so very tired, but you twist your wrist and control your ankle. Time is by your side. Sakon is, too. He steals away your camera, thin fingers turning the circles, catching the sun in the camera, catching the both of you in it. Flowers spread across the glass of the viewfinder, green stems and curling petals, purples and green and countryside sun beaming and printing hexagonal lens flare.

You teach him how to drive because it's Japan and not everyone can, but then again, nobody really needs to. He doesn’t do so well, not with Ukon itching to play on his fingers and move according to his murmurs and the snappish retorts that come from the redhead. Even then, you listen, snapping back at Ukon. Sakon doesn’t like it much, but you continue to argue until he frowns, and Ukon surrenders, then you apologize and press a kiss — it feels much better than anything — to his forehead. You two didn’t argue, but you might as well say you did; Ukon is a part of Sakon, whether some freaky spirit possession thing or— just him. Murmuring an apology, you laugh under your breath. You catch red anemones on the side of the road to give him, making a flower crown that’s a little too big, circling around his neck like a wreath. It makes you think how Christmas will be with him.

A smile forms across your face, chest puffing and deflating with every laugh, body growing fuzzy and everything feeling — you feel a little strange: hot. The sun is hot, beating, but that isn’t it. Sakon interrupts you by pressing his head against your own, checking you for a fever. _We don’t have to go, it’s just for research,_ but you don’t care about stopping. He’s not excited at the prospect of stopping. Neither are you, but for other reasons. Living the high of the road, of every place and journey never being the same, is what you live for. Things coil in your body to do tiny favors like this for him, simply to be with him and near him. Love is something you’re not used to, not this kind at least. It’s both of those and more, plus the appeals of snapping shots of new places, drafting stories and scoops for your magazine.

The thoughts remind you of photography and puppetry. You forget it when you’re with him, and maybe it’s how he forgets to discuss bunraku and puppetry despite that being the whole reason you travel for the most part. Gently, you pry the camera out of his fingers and snap a photo of him, of him in it. Ukon jests about his looks, about how glorious he is. You’re his friend, hell, you talk more to him than Sakon sometimes, but you focus on the off guard. It’s captivating, and you feel warm having a photo to put in the scrapbook your mother gave you. Maybe you’ll go schoolgirl style and sharpie black hearts on it in lovelorn madness. Or: collage him against 70's newspapers of low-riders and hip films. 

Entering the vehicle, you open the door for him. The drive isn’t long, but everything stretches. Sakon even sings, melodious and quiet to the radio, with rock and pop — he loves the classical stuff, but he begrudges you anyway — music you got him to listen to. Grazing his pinkie with your own in an untold promise and smiling like you know something the rest of the world doesn’t, you drive on.

When you get to a stop, you come to realize you don’t understand. Walking through the hotel doors, going into the onsen at the place you stopped at for the night, you still don’t understand, but you know that he’s going to sleep on your shoulder when you rest, and even if cuddling is a better idea in words than execution, that you’ll crawl a hand around his waist and tangle yourself in his yukata. You might slip a hand an caress his leg, pressing fingers into soft white, treasuring the skin, but if only he lets you. Part of you wants to, and part of you wants one of his hands to wander accidentally, but it all depends on what he wants. The thoughts are comforting enough to slip you into his futon and whisper, ghosting his ear with mint breath, a soft goodnight.

Next morning you leave. He speaks to you as you leave, relaxed by the steaming onsen, skin still feeling like silk when you dip down and hold him at the waist, a hug from behind to catch the memories before they go away; this will make you remember everything, and maybe you just wanted to hold him. Obliging, he leans into you, even if people stare. You watch the people walk by, stare at the rocks and pebbles, look at the trinket hanging from your car mirror, and wonder when him being with you makes sense. You like each other, but that isn’t all. He says the place, pulling out a map. The words are memorized already.

Blurring, the road ahead is barely there to begin with, but your next destination is. You take a while to get there, again, this time stopping at a payphone to call his mother. You hop back in, and he hands you a sandwich, catching you off guard for when you feel wet hands splash against your face. His hands are damp as he smears a streak of water across your face, laughing cutely, and the strange feelings return. A bag full of rice crackers, a few bentos, a dozen water bottles sits at his foot, and you graze his knee when your reach into it. Ignoring your inhibitions, you press a kiss into his skin, and he melts with a smile, blushing and flustered. You are too, but you play it off better than him. You finally meet his levels of blush when Ukon calls you on playing it off. You smack him upside the head.

It’s another stop the next day: the puppeteering place you intended to visit. He’s calm, but you’ve known him for too long. A smile gently curves across his face, and you buy a trinket for him to put on Ukon’s box, because maybe he’ll like it. He loves it. You melt. You’re there, but this isn’t the final destination, nor is it close. You won’t understand where you’re going for a long time, it’s a fact, but maybe there’s wiggle room for trying — with Sakon at your side you feel a little cocky. Part of your mind believes that when you get there, you still won’t understand, but maybe you’ll know.


End file.
